He presses the Sawzall to
her chest, slices skin to bone.
This unzipping of skin does
not stop our breaths–we’re used to
invasion of the body,
the way his fingers pinch
into her pockets as though
for a cloth or a quarter.
Grasping bone ends, he spreads
her pinkish ribs, not breaking
a sweat, to find what he’s come
for: such a small thing, really,
he plucks it easily.
Fingers bloodied, he holds out
the heart to us: take it, see,
it is no bigger than your fist.
About the poet:
Shanna Germain is a poet by nature, a short-story writer by the skin of her teeth and a novelist-in-training. Her poems and short stories have appeared in publications such as the Absinthe Literary Review, American Journal of Nursing, Best American Erotica, McSweeney’s and Salon. You can see more of her work on her website, yearofthebooks.wordpress.com.
About the poem:
First Cadaver is actually one of two poems that bookend my years of working on the ambulance. In this poem, …